


A Thousand Words

by dragoneggos



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Books, Hunger Games References, Little Women References, M/M, Musician Baz, Pining, References to Jane Austen, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, painter simon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoneggos/pseuds/dragoneggos
Summary: Baz Pitch has everything Simon Snow has ever wanted: a supporting father; a place at his dream university; a nice flat (to himself); and an impeccable reading speed.Meanwhile, Simon Snow has the only thing Baz Pitch has ever wanted: a friend.Can the painter and the musician stop their masquerading, and see each other as they truly are? And if they do, what will that mean for everything they've already built?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm no good at writing first chapters but please stick with it! I promise it gets better (I hope it gets better).

**SIMON**

I don’t even like books.

At least not really. I’ve never had the time for them. I’m usually rushing about somewhere, or covered in something that I definitely shouldn’t hold a book with. It’s just easier just to throw the TV on as background noise while I busy myself with something else.

Even before, when I had time to be reading, I didn’t. Mr Mage would be on me all the time about studying harder, reading more, and though Penny had been telling me from Year 7 that the only way to get better is by actually _reading_ the assigned books, I could just never sit still for that long. Not when there were a million other, cooler things I could’ve been doing (in the secrecy of my room, of course, with a book to hand to pick up if someone caught me, though I don’t know I would’ve explained the charcoal covering my fingers).

So, I suppose it wasn’t much of a surprise when I failed my A Levels. To anyone except David Mage.

He hadn’t even been angry- at least, not outwardly. Just stared at me when I worked up the courage to tell him, those lifeless eyes drilling unfalteringly into my soul. He’d looked after me since I was eleven, but it was suddenly like those years meant nothing to him. Even as the head of Watford University, he couldn’t do anything. I don’t think he would’ve even if he could though. I think he wants me to learn a lesson. I’m not really sure what I’m learning from sleeping on the floor of Penny’s flat in the student halls every night, but there’s probably some deeper meaning I’m missing. Probably.

What _was_ a surprise, was Ebb offering me a job in the university library with her. She’d always liked me, would chat with me when I tagged along with Mr Mage on one of our many endless tours round the university. “This could all be yours one day Simon!” he used to say to me, waving wildly with his arms, as we crossed the courtyards. And I’d try and smile. Try and pretend this was something I really wanted.

Anyway, it doesn’t pay much, and the hours are long, but I get enough to help out Penny with the shopping: I’m trying not to completely mooch off her. As much as I long for something better, something, anything _else_ , at least I know that here I can at least try and get Mr Mage’s approval back, however futile of an attempt that may be.

Plus, between shifts, Ebb lets me paint. I like to pretend that Mage is my main reason for staying, but in reality, I’ve spent way too fucking long on the library walls to quit now. Three months in, and I’ve still barely scratched the surface, despite the long hours I’ve spent at it. Most of my energy has gone into the huge mural at the front: a detailed depiction of the library itself, with Ebb at the top, long spirals and piles of books surrounding her, as well as university students I see here regularly, like the frazzled third year that always leaves with more books than she comes in with; or the nervous first year who spills water on everything he reads (we probably should’ve banned him, but Ebb says he has a kind soul); or the book club that meets in the back every Wednesday to discuss a new romance novel; or Penny at a table of her own, head down, her purple glasses sliding down her nose, scribbling furiously into a notebook, surrounded by more books than I’ve read in my whole lifetime (that one’s my favourite). The colours merge and flow together, and it’s easily the best piece I’ve ever done, though it’s far from finished. I usually stay after the library closes to get more done, and add to the other walls- paintings from books and fairy tales, as many as I can remember. And to give Penny some time alone with Shepard.

It’s nice though. In the empty library at night. The lights are soft and low, and it’s just me, the paint, and the constant surrounding smell of books, enveloping me into a hug, that may be the closest thing to safety I’ve ever felt. If Mr Mage found me in here, I’d probably be in deep shit (I don’t even know if he knows I work here), but Ebb turns a blind eye to it.

For a few hours, at least, I’m alone, and doing what I love, even if it’s in a weird context. Even if afterwards, I collapse onto Penny’s floor at one in the morning. Even if every single day is the same. Better to be a good sort of monotony, than the one I was living before.  
  


**BAZ**

He’s doing it again.

I swear, he’s doing it to piss me off. Like he goes out of his way to go, _oh, I know what will make Baz’s day_ infinitely _worse._

I’ve never had to work in a library, but the Dewey Decimal System isn’t exactly difficult to navigate. I try to avoid this library for this exact reason, but my usual one is filled with insufferable drama students, forcing me study here. No other reason.

But I swear, this boy must be actually illiterate. It’s a wonder how he ever got a job working in a library. I’ve half a mind to report him: get him fired, or expelled, or whatever (I still can’t work out if he’s a student, though god knows what he would be studying).

But, you know. I’m hopelessly in love with him.

Which is ridiculous, really. I don’t even know his name (why would I? Who would wear a name badge in a _library_?). What I _do_ know is that his golden curls bounce precariously on his head when he reaches to a higher shelf. I know that he has the prettiest laugh I’ve ever heard, a harsh melodic sound that has no respect for his hushed surroundings, but that no one would ever dare shush. I know that he always tries to point someone in the right direction towards a book, even when he clearly has no idea what he’s talking about (I genuinely believe I could do a better job now, the amount of time I’ve spent watching him fumble about). I know that he always carefully wipes his hands before handling a book, as if he appreciates each of their values, even if he doesn’t quite understand it. I know that the reason he doesn’t pay attention to where the books are going, is because he’s too busy studying the murals on the wall ahead of him, his hands moving of their own accord, mapping out his imagination in front of him.

So yeah. Maybe the drama students aren’t my only reason for coming to this library.

None of this stops me, however, from rolling my eyes and sighing dramatically, as I turn to where he is making a mess on the shelf next to me.

“Excuse me,” I say in my best customer service voice, letting the irritation laced in my eyes speak for itself. We’ve never really conversed before, and the last thing I want is to melt into a puddle at his feet. He turns to me, his mouth hanging slightly open, as if he can’t quite be bothered to close it, but he doesn’t say anything, waiting for me to go on. “Where are the Charles Bailey textbooks?” He stares at me for a moment longer, his eyes searching mine, searching for a lenience he will never find, before replying,

“Are they not there?” he gulps, trying to stay somewhat cheerful.

“No. It would seem not.”

“Um. Well they should be. There, I mean. They should be there.”

“Indeed, they should, but despite my own perfect vision, I am in fact failing to find them.” He comes over to me, almost tripping on a stack of books he somehow forgot all about, despite stacking them literally minutes ago.

I gesture in front of me. “See? Not here,” I cross my arms and lean against the bookshelf, the picture of calm and collected. No need for him to know about my thundering heart- he’s never stood so close to me before.

“Uhh, well I guess you could ask Ebb-”

I huff out an exasperated sigh before he can finish, replying, “I don’t want to talk to _Ebb_ , I shouldn’t need to talk to _Ebb_. You should know where the books are, you work here, don’t you?”

His face starts to go red then, and I see his hands ball into fists at his side, already aching for a fight. I wonder what a fight with this strange library boy would be like (he’d probably win, but at least it would be an excuse to touch him) (pathetic, I know). Before my fantasies can get too out of hand though, he seems to calm himself down, closing his eyes, his hands slowly unfurling. I’m almost disappointed, it’s been so long since I had an interaction with someone that wasn’t about the homework, or a scripted discussion with my father. I don’t count the group chat with Dev and Niall, since I adamantly refuse to speak on it, just because of their obscene use of emojis.

He takes a deep breath, before turning away from me again, responding with a careful, robotic, “If you have any further questions about a book, please ask Ebb at the front desk.”

I sweep my own books into my bag in a fury, pissed at him for no reason he could begin to understand, or I could begin to explain. I sneer at him, before storming to the front of the library, not to Ebb, but to the ornate wooden doors that lead to the outside. I didn’t even want that textbook anyway. I just wanted an excuse to talk to him. That’s all I ever really want, anyway.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be the quickest I've ever updated, but I am trying to get as much of this fic done as I can! I hope you enjoy it! :)

**SIMON**

“I’m telling you Penny; I did nothing wrong!” I’m lying on the floor of Penny’s flat, staring up at the hundreds of glow-in-the-dark stars she stuck on her ceiling on the first day. They might be my favourite thing about the whole flat.

“I mean, you did lose the textbooks,” Penny replies, a few metres away from my head, folding her laundry and studding it into her dresser any way it will fit.

“I didn’t!” I sit up, to more effectively illustrate my point, “Someone else probably checked them out! And he probably knew that, the bastard. He was such a posh wanker, Penny, I bet someone bribed Mage to let him in.” I lean my head back against the side of Penny’s bed, the exhaustion beginning to hit me in a wave. I haven’t slept properly in weeks (months, really. Sleeping on the floor of a student flat isn’t exactly the height of luxury), too stressed to allow my mind a chance to properly slow down.

“Right.” Penny turns to look at me, leaning back against her too full dresser, somehow still mastering that serious, disapproving look, even in light blue owl pyjamas. I’m still in jeans- I don’t bother with pyjamas, a habit I learnt in the homes. Better to be prepared, especially now.

“How’s Shepard?” I ask, changing the subject as she steps round me onto her bed. She blushes slightly at the mention of her kind-of-boyfriend, but keeps her head high as she answers,

“He’s good. He was irritating me about how to make the perfect cup of tea earlier. I don’t know who he thinks we are.” She shakes her head softly, in mock disapproval. Penny and Shepard met on the first day at Watford- he’s doing a year abroad, studying here before he returns to Omaha next year. I haven’t seen all that much of him, but if Penny likes him, that’s approval enough for me.

“ _That’s_ what you do when you have the flat to yourself? Make _tea_?” I lie back down into my nest of discarded blankets and pillows and other bits Penny picked up here and there, that form my bed. There’s barely enough room in her flat for us both to stand, but we make it work. Thank fuck for Penny. Thank fuck for her making it work.

“Go to sleep, Simon,” she throws a cushion at me, but I catch it before it hits me, looking up at her, a grin plastered across my face as she turns her lamp off.

“Good night Penny.”

**BAZ**

Two days. _Two days_ , that’s how long I manage to stay away this time. Though, I suppose I do actually have an essay to write, and it’s not like I can do it in the soul deafening silence of my flat. So at least I actually have a reason (an _excuse_ ) to be in the library this time.

I set up camp in my usual table at the back, far enough away from everything that no one bothers me, but in full view of the library boy. It takes me an age, but I finally manage to lose myself in the monotony of my economics essay, barely moving from my spot all day. I’m surprised to see the library boy stays here all day too, alternating between working, and disappearing behind the stacks.

The library is practically empty by the time I’m beginning to emerge from my study cave, though I’m far from done, with an exam tomorrow I will probably have to stay up half the night revising for, especially if I have to do it in my flat.

Nevertheless, I pack up my things and start heading towards the exit, the ornate clock on the wall above the door pointing to ten. I’m so focused on leaving, that I almost miss library boy focusing intently on a small portion of the wall, paintbrush in hand, tongue sticking out. I’ve always suspected it was him that did the paintings, based on the focused, longing looks he gives them, but I haven’t been able to see him in action until today.

I lean against a nearby table, content to watch him work, until he turns around to switch colours. He scowls when he sees me, but says nothing. I study his work for a few more seconds before asking, “ _The Hunger Games_? Really?”

His scowl deepens, but he still doesn’t look at me as he replies, “It was a good book.”

“For a ten-year old, maybe.” I was bluffing: I loved the books when I read them, though I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch the movies in years.

“I imagine Katniss differently than the film version. Younger, for starters,” I say, when it becomes clear he isn’t going to reply to me. I slowly approach the mural, as he continues to mix paints, his hand clutched in barely concealed anger around his brush. I don’t care, this is the closest thing to a civil conversation we’ve ever had.

The painting is gorgeous. Scenes from each book flowing seamlessly into each other: the reaping, with Katniss rushing forward; Rue’s death, with the flowers spread delicately around her; the Quarter Quell map; Katniss and Peeta reuniting- all perfectly laid out, right in front of me, in this small corner of a university library. It’s like I am breathing in the book.

“I’ve only seen the film,” the boy admits, after a moment of silence, my eyes still glued on the painting, my eyes still wide with awe.

“A library assistant who hasn’t read the book? A travesty!” Though my heart isn’t really in it, he still flinches, his hand now so tight around that brush, I’m afraid he’s going to snap it.

“Who are you, anyway?” He asks, whirling to meet my gaze, as I struggle to rearrange my face into a sneer.

I debate refusing to give him my name, but the thought of my name on his tongue is too appealing an opportunity to pass up.

“Baz Pitch,” I reply coolly, shoving my hands into my pockets and willing myself to look somewhat graceful, as I pray he doesn’t recognise the name. He just stares at me, before rolling his eyes and continuing to test colours.

“And you are?” I ask after a moment, unable to resist the perfect moment to finally get this information.

He hesitates for a second, as if weighing up the dangers in telling me this, before finally responding, “Simon Snow.”

It’s very difficult to keep from grinning.

“Well, Snow. Seeing, as I presume, you’ll be here a while longer, do you mind if I continue studying?” I can’t return to the emptiness yet.

He grunts in annoyance, but gestures to the table I’d been leaning against before. I move over there and take out my books, surprised by how easily I’m able to work with him standing there. We sit like that for the next two hours, in a surprisingly easy silence, me sneaking precious glances at him every now and again.

When midnight strikes, he groans softly to himself, before packing up his things, wordlessly gesturing at myself to do the same. As much as I’m dreading returning to my flat, at least I can collapse straight into bed now, rather than have to sit up at my uncomfortable desk and force my eyes to stay open.

I nod at him as I turn to leave, my traitorous heart pounding in my chest as he meets my gaze.

**SIMON**

After the weirdness of last night with Baz, the last thing I expect is for him to be here again today. But as I’m setting up my paints alongside a new section of wall, he again comes slinking by. I’m not quite sure what to make of it actually, but I know guys like him, and I know he’s probably plotting something against me. They usually are.

“What are you painting today?” He asks, with his usual hint of disdain perfectly accompanied by a mocking tone as he slumps elegantly into a nearby chair. I scowl at him, but decide to grace him with an answer.

“ _Alice in Wonderland_ , I think,” I murmur, trying to focus on the paint and _only_ the paint. Most people mess me up when I’m trying to paint, distracting me with idle chatter or just their mere presence, but so far, I haven’t had that with Baz, probably because I don’t particularly care what he has to say.

“Have you actually read the book this time, or are you basing this off the Disney film?” I feel my cheeks heat up in embarrassment, which he takes as an answer in itself.

“Honestly Snow, you’re an embarrassment of a library worker.”

He’s right, obviously. And I only chose _Alice in Wonderland_ because I want to do something nice for Ebb, and I know it’s one of her favourites. Maybe I should stop taking on projects I don’t really understand (at least I’ve seen _The Hunger Games_ countless times, unlike this one, that I’ve only seen once, if that) but then I’d only be left with the dozen or so books I read when I was ten.

It takes me longer than it should to notice Baz coming up behind me, and I almost jump out of my skin when he jumps up to perch on the table I’m working on.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I whirl to face him, which isn’t an easy task now he’s half a foot above me, but I try not to let that affect me. He smirks down at me, as insufferable as ever, before leaning back slightly on his hands to survey the wall in front of him.

“Helping you.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it’s not completely absurd to imagine this posh wanker wanting to help me.

“How are _you_ gonna be able to help _me_?” He rolls his eyes at this, as if I’m the one being stupid.

“I’ve read _Alice in Wonderland_ more times than you can count, Snow. You’ve been blessed with an expert.” He gestures exaggeratedly at himself.

“Nope, no way,” I respond, shaking my head before he’s even finished talking, turning away from him so I can focus more intently on remembering the Cheshire Cat.

“Why not?” I don’t need to look at him to know he’s crossing his arms, mocking me already.

“Because. Because you’re probably just gonna tell me wrong things anyway, and then I’ll look like even more of an idiot. Why have you read _Alice in Wonderland_ so many times anyway?” He looks uncomfortable at that, and I think I’ve finally caught him in a lie, when he finally responds.

“It was my mother’s favourite book.” I catch the quiet tone before I catch the past tense. _Was_. Maybe we’re not as different as I thought. It’s not like even someone like Baz would lie about that.

“Oh,” is all I manage to say. I turn to him, still leaning back on the table, doing his best not to look uncomfortable, throwing a sneer my way when he catches me looking.

“What _should_ the Cheshire Cat look like then?” I turn back towards the wall, paintbrush in hand, as he opens his mouth to start his detailed descriptions.

**BAZ**

We end up staying there for half the night, watching the _Alice in Wonderland_ of my childhood come alive on the wall in front of me. I don’t even bother hunting down a copy of the book- I already have entire passages memorised.

I spend hours describing certain shades of blue and green, Snow’s artist brain working a hundred miles an hour to fill in the gaps that words can’t fill. Perfect depictions of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, the Queen of Hearts; the White Rabbit- all seemingly plucked straight from my childhood brain, my mother’s gentle voice still ringing in my ears.

We don’t stop until the clock chimes two, and my eyes are drooping, though I’ve never felt more awake, more alive. Witnessing Snow create something like this, watching the walls come alive- I feel my own fingers itching to do something, to make something, the muscle memory coming alive at my fingertips. I squeeze them into fists though- that time in my life is over, reminiscing on it will just make me more miserable.

Snow says nothing as he packs up his things, his movements slow and droopy, but he keeps stealing glances at the work of art behind him. I think he knows we created magic tonight, or something close to it.

Definitely rivalling the comparatively drab work of Tenniel.

I don’t say anything as I pack up my own things either, sweeping my abandoned books back into my bag, and turning to leave.

“Baz?” His sleepy voice calls just as I’m almost at the door. I turn to him, pushing him to continue. “Thanks.” I give him a noncommittal nod, as the darkness and stars engulf me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something about Snowbaz and Alice in Wonderland references hits different


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me actually uploading quickly omg. I hope you enjoy Chapter Three! :)

**SIMON**

I thought things between Baz and I would change after the other night. Or at least that he’d get a bit nicer.

If anything, he’s gotten worse.

I swear, he goes out of his way to look for things I’ve done wrong, and point them out to everyone. A few days ago, he complained to Ebb, _behind my back_ , about a mess in the history stacks, that I was _on my way to clean up_. I hate having to listen to Ebb’s lectures, it just makes me feel worse about myself, and neither of us enjoy it. And- though I’ve never seen him consume any food- his table is always mysteriously littered with crisp crumbs, _salt and vinegar_ crisp crumbs. Which I know he just does to piss me off, because there’s no way a guy that posh doesn’t know how to eat without spilling half the bag on the floor. Penny told me she was worried about me when I told her that part, that I was seeing patterns in plain places again.

The weirdest part, is he still stays every night. I haven’t asked for his help with another painting, and he hasn’t offered (I’ve just been adding to the huge fairy-tale mural, anyway), but still, every night, without fail, he sets up camp a couple of tables over from wherever I’m working, and writes or studies or revises or plots, or does whatever the fuck it is that he does. I still don’t even know what his degree is in. I don’t think I really care.

“It is weird though Penny. You have to admit,” I whine, a week after the _Alice in Wonderland_ incident, putting books haphazardly away as Penny surveys my latest works. She shrugs in reply, a very un-Penny like gesture (I’m a bad influence on her), as her finger traces round the cursed mural.

“This is some of your best work Simon,” she murmurs, once again ignoring the issue at hand. I huff in impatient annoyance, and she turns to me, hands on her hips.

“I don’t think it’s that weird, maybe he just doesn’t have a quiet place to work. Maybe he has a loud roommate,” she looks pointedly at me, but I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, “Plus, it seems like his presence is actually helping you.” She laughs at my expression, and I do my best to look annoyed at her, but I hate her words mostly because I think she might be _right_. Even the improvements I’ve been making on the fairy-tale mural have infinitely enhanced it, and many of our regulars have complimented me on the _Alice in Wonderland_ one, something no one’s ever really done before. And I’m not quite sure what to do with this information.

“It’s probably just a coincidence. And I spent longer on that one than the others, anyway.” Not entirely true, given the hours I’ve poured into some of them, but true enough that I don’t feel like I’m lying to my best friend.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s working.” She takes a step back and studies the full length of the wall again, before curling back up in her seat with her books. I sigh, shaking my head to rid it of all the Baz thoughts, before returning again to the monotonous library work.

I expect that night to be much of the same, surrounding silence, but it seems Baz has other ideas. I’m about to turn back to the fairy-tale mural for the fourth night in a row (it really doesn’t need any more touch ups, I just don’t know what else to paint), when he comes up behind me and slams a pile of ancient looking hardbacks onto the table with such force, I almost spill an entire- expensive- pot of paint.

“What the fuck Baz?” The best part about staying here late at night is I can talk how I like without Ebb’s disapproving glances.

“Please tell me you’ve read at least one of these.” I groan in annoyance, shoving him away with probably more force than necessary. He doesn’t let up though, continuing with his questioning, and demanding an answer, “Snow?”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter. Deep breaths, Simon. Focus on the paint.

“It’s your name, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s beside the point. Have you read any of these?” He gestures again to his obscenely high pile of books. I don’t need to read the titles to know the answer.

“No,” I reply, still not looking at him, focus on the paint (I still don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna paint).

“No? You haven’t even looked at them!” I don’t think his outrage is even an act anymore. I think this may just be who Baz is. Arrogant to the point of ignorance.

“I haven’t read them.” A calm demeaner is key in situations like this, Penny is always drilling that into me. Or at least, she tries to. Mostly because I tend to ignore her. I prefer to go off on people like Baz; I’m never going to beat them using words, so it’s much more efficient to use my fists.

“I suppose that leaves me with no choice, then.”

“Fucking off and leaving me alone for once?” Something like anger flashes in his eyes when I turn to look at them, though it’s instantly replaced by his usual unbothered sneer of disgust.

“It’s frankly an injustice that this library fails to have an Austen painting, and I intend to force you to remedy that immediately.”

“Austen?” I don’t know why I’m playing along. I should just tell him to fuck off again and get back to painting. Though painting _what_ , I’m still not sure.

“Austen. _Jane_ Austen?” I shrug in reply; the words ring a vague bell, from a time before, a time where I gave a shit what people other than Penny (and Ebb) said. Those times are long gone now. “We’ll start at the beginning then, I suppose.”

And he launches into a description that sparks life into my imagination, for the first time in a long, long while.

**BAZ**

I’m surprised by how quickly Snow takes to material he has never experienced before. How he is able to produce images of striking likeness to Elizabeth Bennet and Anne Elliot, using only my words to guide him. I’m also surprised by how easy it is to keep talking, on and on about these novels that shaped me. And how intently Snow listens.

He asks questions occasionally: out of genuine interest or to aid his art I’m not sure, but either way, it fills gaps in the comfortable silence we otherwise lapse into.

“So, Mr Knightly loved Emma the whole time, and was just going to let her marry Frank Churchill?”

“He thought it would make her happy.”

“It takes a whole book of misunderstandings for her to finally realise what she wants?”

“Some people are just blind to things like that.” He turns to me then, and I worry I pressed too much emotion into my voice, until he just reaches for the yellow paint next to me.

“It sounds dumb.” He finally replies. He’s not entirely wrong; it _feels_ dumb. I just don’t know what to do about it.

“Honestly, have you not even seen _Clueless_?” I’m trying, desperately trying, to change the subject any way I can, and if that means sharing my embarrassing fondness for romcoms, so be it.

“The Paul Rudd movie?” Maybe not it’s most memorable feature,

“Yes, Snow, the Paul Rudd movie.”

“I think Agatha made me watch it once.” I stiffen at that. I’ve never heard him mention a girl- other than his insufferable roommate, who I’m forced to share a class with- before. “I thought it was weird. The whole step-brother thing? I don’t know, Agatha made me watch a lot of weird movies.” He finishes painting a yellow dress onto our protagonist, taking a step back to view the whole piece, cocking his head to the side slightly in concentration. I don’t think he’s even aware of the movements. I hate myself even more as I fall even more in love with him. “What does that have to do with anything, anyway?” he asks, and I realise I was staring.

“It was based on _Emma_ , that’s all.” I feel a bit put out by the mention of this reclusive Agatha, like the spark we’d started is dimming. Or maybe I imagined there was ever anything other than ash.

We work in relative silence for the next half an hour, my descriptions of various faces and hats the only thing filling the silence, until I ask him,

“Why do you bother working here?” I don’t know if it’s the darkness or the paint fumes making me this bold, but I show no signs of stopping.

“Why do _you_ have to be such a prick all the time?” He shoots back, but his hand trembles slightly. Not with rage, I realise, but with fear.

“I’m serious though. You don’t read, you’re obviously not a student, and you’re more of a hindrance than a help, leaving a tragedy after every step you take. You’re a walking disaster, not built for a library at all.” And we match, Simon Snow.

“You sound like my foster father,” he mutters, quietly enough that I’m not entirely sure he expected me to hear. And not the words I expected to hear.

I’d stupidly assumed Snow was some privileged art student, perhaps taking a gap year to earn some of his own money, or experience the way of the world. I didn’t expect him to be relying on this job for anything more than that. I probably would’ve stopped with my half-hearted attempts to get him fired if I’d known. Probably.

I wait for him to say something more, follow it up. But he doesn’t. And I don’t dare, lest I inevitably act like a dick again, so we lapse into silence for the remaining half an hour. I remind myself again and again that he’s not my friend, that this weird little truce we have is temporary, just for his art.

Maybe that’s true for him, but it’s always been so much more for me.

We pack up when the clock reaches one. Snow’s painting isn’t finished, but he mumbles something about an early shift, and I have a morning lecture that it would probably not be a good idea to fall asleep during.

I don’t say anything to Snow as I leave, and he makes no attempt to start any conversation with me. I don’t know why I’m disappointed, like I said, we’re not friends. It’s not like I even want to be friends, I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to earn a degree, and get my father off my back. Maybe it’s time I remind myself of that.

Simon Snow is a complication. A complication I should probably move on from.

He doesn’t stop me when I walk out the door.


	4. Chapter Four

**SIMON**

I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like I’m disappointed. I _like_ being left alone. Though it has made it harder to paint.

I think I spooked him with the comment about foster care. Some people are put off by stuff like that. Not that it matters, like I said. There’s just a lot of empty wall I don’t know how to fill.

He still stays, every evening. But he sits cooped up at the back, like he’s actually getting work done. I asked Penny about him, and she said he doesn’t talk in their class, but that he always gets the highest score on the tests (she said that bit with gritted teeth; Penny doesn’t like being outdone).

I almost add him to the library mural at the front, but I don’t know how I’d paint him. Would it be the Baz that reports me, and taunts me for not knowing where books are? Or would it be the Baz that sits for hours, describing novels for me in excruciating, minute detail. Or, would it be the Baz that sits at the back, emotionless, like I don’t exist. I’m not sure which one confuses me more.

It’s a couple of days of this, before I spot him with some friends. I didn’t realise he even had friends, in my mind Baz exists only alone in this library, working away at his table. For some reason, the thought of him outside it, of him having his own life, full of people and experiences I have no idea about, freaks me the fuck out.

They’re crowded round Baz’s usual table at the back, though it looks more like an ambush than a study group. I linger behind one of the stacks, eavesdropping (you never know what boys like this are up to, it doesn’t hurt to be too careful), though from my vantage point, I can’t even see Baz’s face.

“Baz, I swear, we haven’t seen you in weeks.” It’s the taller one, that I hear first, leaning across practically the whole table to shove his face into Baz’s view.

“We share four classes, Dev. And we’re cousins.” I can feel Baz rolling his eyes without having to look at him.

“You never come out with us anymore. You’re always ‘revising’ and doing- fuck knows what else.” The smaller one chimes in from Baz’s left, leaning on his elbow, looking up at his friend.

“I resent the use of air quotations. What would my father say?” I start to wonder if these are really Baz’s friends, or if this is just the way he speaks to everyone.

“He’d tell you to lighten the fuck up, you boring sod,” the taller one- Dev- says, hitting Baz playfully on the shoulder, before leaning back into his chair. I can imagine the icy stare he’s met with.

“Then clearly, you don’t know my father.” Baz leans forward on his chair, meeting Dev’s gaze, as the other one looks on from beside him. “I got a _B_ on my last exam, Dev. A _B_. Do you know what he’ll do to me if that happens again?” he hisses, and I lean against the bookshelf in surprise. It feels wrong. It feels wrong to be hearing this.

But before I can attempt to sneak away, I make a wrong move with my arm, sending an entire row of books scattering across the floor. Baz whirls in his seat to face me, and his face is like fire.

I don’t bother saying anything, I don’t bother trying to explain, or clean up the books littered across the floor (I’m sure I’ll get an earful from Ebb about it later anyway). I just walk away. Leaving the mess, and Baz’s face, and the destruction it promises, and the confusion he constantly brings to the table (literally and metaphorically), behind me. For me to deal with later. Or not at all, preferably.

**BAZ**

I almost don’t stay that night. Just from sheer embarrassment. Almost.

I’m not even sure what part I’m particularly embarrassed about: Snow hearing about my failed exam, or Snow having to witness my friends interrogating me. Either one is rather mortifying, for a Pitch. Though I don’t think he’s clocked what my name means yet.

In the end, I decide to stay anyway. I’m not about to let some deprived library worker dictate my studying plans. Even if he is the very reason I stay.

I’m still poring over my economics textbook when people start slowly filing out of the library, so absorbed in the content I somehow missed on my exam, that I don’t notice Snow until he’s standing over me.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask, pulling out my earbud and keeping my eyes focused on the page, as if I was aware of him the whole time (I don’t know how he managed to sneak up on me- _again_ ).

He’s still standing there, arms crossed and his face arranged in a scowl, as I try desperately not to act like I’m not hanging off his every word. He points, wordlessly to his own workspace, and marches back towards it, not even bothering to check to see if I’m following. I am, of course. Because I’m pathetic.

He leads me to another section of blank wall, and gestures vaguely for me to sit down. I push myself up onto the edge of the table, watching him intently as I try to figure out what he wants.

“Tell me. About something. A book.” He finally stutters out, pouring paint onto a pallet as he tries not to meet my gaze.

“Use your words, Snow. We are in a library, after all.” I stretch my legs out in front of me, rather enjoying the change of pace. He grits his teeth, but turns to face me, paintbrush in hand and his curls all messy, like he’d been pulling his fingers through them. I wonder, for a second, if I make him nervous. And I wonder if that thought excites me or disgusts me.

“I need to fill this wall. You’ve read hundreds of books. Tell me about another one.” Oh. So that’s all this is about.

“What makes you think I’ve read hundreds of books?”

“You’re,” he gestures wildly at me, flinging water into my face from his wet paintbrush, that I delicately wipe away. “You’re smart. And well posh. You’re just a bookish type, I guess. You’ve read more books that most people that come in here, I bet.” He’s not wrong. I’d make a strong guess that I’ve read more even than his precious Ebb.

“Perhaps I’m not as smart as you think.” I mutter, the B I received from my lecturer this morning gleaming at me until it becomes the only thing I can see. Snow just stares at me, breaking through the impenetrable wall of red marker that crushed my week. As if he can see through that.

Eventually, he snorts, breaking eye contact. “Anyone who uses the word, _perhaps_ , is too smart for their own good.” I actually smile a little at that, though I’m careful not to let him see it.

I don’t say anything else before I launch into my description of _Little Women_ , losing myself in my own detailed imaginings of Meg’s ballgown; Jo’s papers; Beth’s sickness; Amy’s own paintings; and Laurie’s longing. I try not to get too hung up on that last part. I don’t bother asking him why he requested I do this, or try to get away. For once, I just let the literature and the paint fumes take me: the perfect combination.

After about two hours, we lapse into a comfortable silence, Snow attempting to perfect a garland of pink and white flowers surrounding the entire painting, as I lay back fully onto the table, staring at the ceiling above me.

“You should paint the ceiling in here, some day.” I don’t know why I’m talking. “Like Michelangelo.”

“Michael who?” Snow asks, not even turning from his work. I roll my eyes anyway.

“He painted the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. Call yourself an artist?”

“I never bothered learning things like that. I never really bothered learning anything, really. I just fucked about with paint until I made something I liked.” There’s something sad in the way he says that, a sense of longing I find achingly familiar.

“Maybe one day we could go to a gallery. You could. I mean.” I should just stop talking.

“I’d like that.” He replies, and my heart stops, wondering which bit he’s referring to, letting myself hope for a second that it’s me. Even though I know it will never be me.

I think that we’re done, until a minute or so later, when Snow catches my attention again. “Baz?” He murmurs, still focused on the paint.

“Mm?” I hum in response, eyes still transfixed on the ceiling, on the possibilities and inevitabilities.

“Why do you stay every night?” I freeze slightly, knowing I will have to proceed with delicacy.

“I believe you were the one who invited me- or rather, _forced_ me- over here tonight, Snow.” I push myself up slightly with my elbow, so I can get a better view of him.

“You know what I mean.” His voice again picks up that sharper edge, the edge of frustration. It would be almost endearing, if it wasn’t aimed at me.

I sigh, hating the honesty I’m still trying to keep caged. “I can’t work in my flat. I can’t focus.” I don’t let him catch the pain in my voice as I say that, don’t let him hear the agony.

“Is it too loud or something?”

“No. Too quiet.” I whisper into the abyss of books. As if that will stop it being true.

He turns to me then, his head tilted to the side in confusion. It’s strikingly similar to the look my old dog used to give me. “ _Too_ quiet?”

“It’s soulless,” I whisper, still not meeting his eyes, “It’s everything I hate about my life.” My voice is barely audible now, and I wonder why I’m letting myself be so vulnerable. Maybe because he knows nothing about me, not really. Or maybe just because he’s Simon Snow, and I’d give him anything. I’d give him all my vulnerabilities, all my secrets wrapped in those frightening sheets of darkness, and I wouldn’t ask for one thing in return. Because he’s Simon Snow, and I’d give him the sun.

He’s silent for another moment, contemplating my words, before he replies, in a quiet I didn’t know he was capable of, “I’m crashing in Penny’s flat. It’s barely big enough for one, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have anyone else, except Penny.” His blue eyes are soft and honest, and I want to live in this moment forever.

“What about Agatha?” I ask, before I can catch myself.

“Agatha?” He seems surprised I’d remembered that. “She was my girlfriend in school. She broke up with me, though, before uni, said she wanted to be single to enjoy it. I don’t think she ever loved me. And I don’t really blame her. I think only Penny’s ever really loved me.” He wraps his arms around himself, and it’s that movement that causes me to say,

“I know that’s not true.” He meets my gaze again, and I can feel it reaching into my soul, breaking my heart more than I thought was even possible.

“I know I have Ebb. And Shepard, I guess.” I don’t even know who Shepard is. “But I don’t think it matters anymore. About Agatha.” He’s still staring at me.

“No?”

“No. Because I think.” He swallows. “I think there’s something I want more.” His arms drop to his sides, and he looks so confused, so afraid, that I slip off the table to take a step towards him, though to do what, I don’t know.

But before I can, he grabs my wrists.

And then _he_ kisses _me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me using That Line again lmao I dont think I can write a fic without it.  
> I hope you're enjoying it so far! (And happy belated Valentine's Day :))


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! I've been feeling kind of unmotivated for this fic for a while, but I'm hoping to update more quickly next time!

**SIMON**

I don’t think I even knew I wanted it until I did it.

Like my suddenly my whole life was unravelling before me, like a ball of string. Or a Bob Ross tutorial. And it was only once I got to the end that everything seemed to make a lot more sense.

Maybe that’s the wrong way to explain it.

Whatever happened, it’s all I can think about in the library the next day (though, I suppose on reflection, thinking about Baz isn’t really anything new). I’m halfway through touching up some of the older paintings, avoiding the huge pile of books Ebb ordered me to stack, when I realise I’ve somehow made Dracula look like Baz- probably not the best look for the boy I was snogging last night.

I’m glad Penny isn’t here to see it, glad she’s off on some date with Shepard _(“Not a date, Simon. Just two_ acquaintances _getting coffee at the same time.”)_. Though at least if she _was_ here, I could stop desperately analysing the events of last night. Or at least analyse them with her.

He kissed me back. That’s the one thought I keep circling back to, even as I remember how he rushed off just minutes later. _He kissed me back_. Maybe it’s just a shock to him. Maybe he didn’t realise he wanted to kiss a bloke. I definitely didn’t. But somehow that part doesn’t feel nearly as monumental as maybe it should.

I spot a blonde ponytail among the stacks, and, though the shade is all wrong, the colour muddied and dull, my thoughts snag on what I said to Baz last night. And I wonder if it was always inevitable that Agatha wouldn’t love me. Because maybe I didn’t really love her. Maybe, I don’t even really know how to love someone. Because other than Penny, I don’t think there’s ever been anyone I’ve wanted to love before.

_He kissed me back._

I wait all day for him to arrive, my head whipping round every time the doors open, and it’s not long before I have to abandon any hopes of painting, before I paint a Baz version of Edward Cullen, or something equally as disturbing.

Darkness falls though, and as the endless stream of people fades into a trickle of students sluggishly making their ways to the door, as Ebb smiles knowingly at me, before following the others out, I begin to give up any lingering hope of him appearing. I begin packing away my own things, as there’s no way I could possibly paint now, when I glance up to see him casually leaning against a desk, as if he’d been there the whole time.

“Jesus Christ, Baz. How do you even do that?” I jump slightly upon noticing him, my heart already raging in my chest. He smirks slightly, a smug expression that makes me think he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“It’s certainly not my fault you’re exceptionally unobservant.” He crosses his arms, and my eyes linger on his slightly ruffled hair, the only sign that he may not be as calm as he is projecting.

“Are you staying tonight?” I ask quietly, halting in my packing away, but refusing to meet his gaze as I will my pounding heart to slow.

“Unfortunately, not, no,” his eyes sweep the mess I’ve left, and my cheeks burn, “but,” he swallows, his cool demeaner slipping, “However, I was wondering if you’d like to come to my flat with me?”

_He kissed me back._

“Uh, yeah, sure. Let me just- get my things.” I frantically start shoving paper and paint into my worn rucksack, aware of his eyes drilling into me at my every movement. A day ago, I would’ve refused. But a lot can happen in a day.

**BAZ**

Stupid. It was a stupid idea. But now I’m standing in the entry way of my stupid, soulless, silent flat, with Simon fucking Snow, and it seems a bit late to backtrack.

I hadn’t even meant to do this. But I’d gotten halfway to the library before I realised I hadn’t even brought a book. Before I realised I didn’t think I’d be able to cope with returning here alone again. To this stupid fucking flat and this stupid fucking building.

And now I’m standing here, hands shoved into my pockets in feigned indifference, exactly like the wanker he already thinks I am, watching Snow poke about my flat.

“I didn’t expect it took look like this.” His voice comes out a bit flat, and I wonder if this place is depressing enough to rob even Simon Snow of his shining, golden soul.

“What did you imagine? Dark crypts and emo music?” His cheeks flush red at that, and any further retorts catch in my throat as I focus on the delightful mix of golden and pink mixed into his face, an artist’s easel.

“No. Just something a bit more… you.” He runs a finger along my spotless kitchen island, and I’m glad he has his back to me, as it takes me a second to return to his train of thoughts again.

“Yeah, well. This building belongs to my father. It’s always felt more his than mine.” As have most things, in my life. Even my mother.

“That’s why you never want to be here?” His head whips around to meet my gaze, and I cringe slightly, remembering his own living situation. Before I can scramble for an explanation, an answer, without being forced to talk more about the soul-stealer himself, his eyes snag on the shadowy corner of the flat.

“ _You_ play?” His fingers begin to reach out towards the long dormant keys, but I reach him, closing the fallboard before he can.

“No.” I lean back against the grand piano, crossing my arms and blocking his view of it.

He raises an eyebrow slightly at me, and despite this, despite everything, my traitorous heart misses a beat at the movement, at the way his face scrunches up in disbelief. An open book that I’m well versed in reading.

“I _can_ play. I _choose_ not to play,” I amend, his eyes unfaltering. They soften slightly at that, as if he can detect the pain laced beneath the harsh tone, as if I’ve somehow found the one soul in the universe adept at reading _me_ , that _tries_ to read me. At least, the one soul left alive.

“Why?” And I realise too late there is no filter on this boy, no way to stop him approaching the shadows and the thinly veiled pain my family have hidden from for years.

“Does it matter?” I snap, probably too sharply. But he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t back off like I expect him to. He lips onto the bench before him, stretching his legs out in front of him, and starts talking.

“When I was fourteen, I almost gave up painting for good.” I can’t help it; I gape at him slightly. Art is such an integral part of him, woven into every intricacy of his very self- it’s impossible to separate one from the other.

“Ma-” He gulps, stopping the words, “My foster father forbade me from taking it for GCSE. A silly, meaningless thing, really, in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like the whole world to me at the time. As I was forced to struggle through endless economics lessons, without Penny to help me.” I hadn’t realised his friendship with Bunce stemmed so far back. Or that our stories seem to intertwine in ways I wasn’t expecting. “I stopped painting, stopped trying to be anything but a shell. For a while. Until my old art teacher noticed, started inviting me into the art rooms again, to paint at lunch. And she would sit me down, and tell me that none of this mattered. That the art was what mattered, what we were creating in this room. Not what was happening outside of it. So, I laboured through the economics, and the English, and the maths, all through GCSEs and into A Levels. But I didn’t stop creating when I could. Didn’t stop living, breathing paint. Didn’t let that light die out, like I know he wanted it to.” He’s whispering by the end, as if he’s admitting this to himself for the first time. And I don’t realise I’m crying until I feel the tear slide down my cheek. I don’t bother wiping it away. “Whatever this is about Baz, whatever reason you have had to stop playing- you can’t let it win.” His eyes meet mine, and I wordlessly nudge him over on the bench, lifting fallboard silently. My fingers hover over the keys.

“I can’t-” My voice breaks, and, against my will, more tears slide down my face. I try to clear my throat, but only a pathetic noise escapes. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t already giving my whole self to this boy, right here, in this moment.

“You can,” he murmurs into my ear, and I shiver slightly, despite myself. And it’s that feeling, that closeness, that warmth, that brings my fingers to the keys once again.

It feels foreign, like speaking a language you haven’t heard in years. But it’s the language my mother spoke, the language we spoke together, and muscle memory kicks in even as my brain lags behind, and my fingers dance rhythmically across the keys.

And I’m sobbing harder now, as I can hear Snow sobbing beside me. And it feels like this moment, right now- is something important, something that will cleave my world in two. The bridge between the darkness, back into the light. Because Simon Snow is the sun, and I am crashing into him.

I finish the song, albeit not as polished as it was those eight years ago, but- I finished it. And I turn to the shining boy beside me, taking him into my arms as I kiss him. It’s messy and neither of us have quite stopped crying, but it feels fitting. As if perhaps, we were meant to find each other, two broken things. But, for the first time since my mother died, I don’t feel so broken anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my Simon and Baz in this fic are wildly different from canon, or my other fics. I hope they still somewhat hold up to sounding realistic lol


	6. Chapter Six

**SIMON**

I end up staying at Baz’s for the rest of the week. And the next.

It makes sense, since it gives Penny more room (and time alone with Shepard), and Baz hates staying at his flat alone anyway.

“I swear to god, if I knew you were going to be half this messy, I would’ve found some other, less irritating roommate, who folded his clothes and knew how to use a dishwasher.” It’s a Wednesday night and he’s picking up one of my socks, as I lounge on his sofa (unreasonably comfortable for someone who claims to hate his own home) and watch _Pointless_.

“That was _one time_ Baz!” I call over my shoulder.

“Snow, you broke half the plates!”

“You don’t need fifteen plates, there’s only two of us,” he goes slightly red at that, at the mention of an _us_. Not that we aren’t _together_ , we still kiss and stuff. We just haven’t put a label on it yet. Or told anyone (Penny thinks I’m ‘staying with a friend’. Baz thinks it’s very 19th century). “Besides,” I continue, “I’m not the one who leaves crisp packets wedged between the sofa cushions.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically, “Need I remind you that this is _my_ flat?”

“Technically it’s your father’s.” He raises an eyebrow at that, daring me to continue. “Anyway, you’re not going to kick me out.”

“Oh really?” he crosses his arms, my sock still clasped between his hands, “And why’s that?”

“Because then who would be around to do this?” And I lean over the edge of the sofa and bring my hands to the back of his neck, pushing his mouth to mine. He doesn’t hesitate before kissing me back, his fingers tangling in my endless curls, as I push against him. It’s a battle when we kiss, one that we both seem to win. At least, I’ve yet to find a way to lose. Not when I open my eyes, and find his grey melting into my blue.

**BAZ**

I’ll be honest, I don’t quite know how we got here.

Not that I’m complaining, far from it. I just don’t understand how I deserved to get this. To land in a universe where I’m complaining about Simon Snow’s dirty socks being on my floor. Or where I can actually study in my flat, wearing his hoodie for company. Where it still smells like him.

It’s a bright Thursday morning and the flat’s empty, Snow at work, as I revise for an exam I have in the afternoon. Snow left a stupid post-it-note on the fridge before he left, promising to bring home cake, whether it goes well or not. And it leaves me wondering when the last time I even did anything that stupidly spontaneous was. I think that’s what I was missing, what this flat was missing- a little bit of soul, of life.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table for the first time in months, listening to the rhythmic tick of the clock and forcing facts in my head using elegant cursive, when the doorbell rings. Snow worked out a couple of days ago how to change the noise (on my _overly fancy posh fucking doorbell_ ) and changed it to an overly obnoxious song, but I haven’t had the heart to change it back. I cringe now though, imagining the postman’s face.

I pad to the door in bare feet, half hoping to open it to Snow’s face, but as I swing it open, I’m greeted by a much less friendly expression.

“Good morning, Basilton.” My father looks me up and down, a grim (Grimm) look of distaste plastered on his face as he beholds my outfit. I stand firm despite the hoodie and the lack of socks, refusing to back down to my father’s stare. Even if it is nearing midday.

“Good morning, Father.” I return the greeting, but make no move to invite him inside, or stop blocking the doorway. I don’t particularly wish to deal with him today- or any day, for that matter- and not when everything else seems to be going so well.

“Are you not going to invite me inside? Or do I need to remind you that I do, in fact, own this building?” I inwardly groan, knowing there is no easy way out of this. And knowing that this likely won’t be a pleasant conversation, based on the initial tone and day of the week. I step aside, holding the door open for him, and leaving minimal space for him to step inside. His eyes dart around the flat, picking up on all of the small imperfections that have been much more frequent since Simon Snow brought his soul into my life. My father’s frown deepens, though, as if unsatisfied by the life on display here.

“I had an interesting conversation with Professor Roberts this morning.” He perches on the edge of the chair I had been sitting on, looking in disapproval at my scattered notes, as if even properly sitting on one of my chairs would be too much approval.

“Oh, yes?” Professor Roberts is one of my lecturers, but also one of my father’s many friends (and spies, essentially) at Watford. I dread to think what lies she’s spun now.

“Yes. She was telling me about a grade you got on a recent examination.” Shit. “Do you want to explain this to me, Basilton?” He pulls out a copy of my exam, the bright red B mocking me from the corner of the page. _Shit_. I say nothing, feeling my heart pound in my chest as I school my face into one of neutrality.

“Do Grimms come in second place, Basilton?” He keeps saying my name, and I know it’s to grate me further. I can’t stop my eyes from darting to the piano in the corner, no longer so shrouded by darkness, a reminder of the Pitch who was. Of the Pitch in me, not the Grimm.

His sharp eyes catch my gaze though, and his frowns only further deepens. Eventually, I meet his piercing gaze and answer, in a voice that is not my own, “No, Father.”

He stands up to leave, a punishment I’m to be left in the dark about undoubtedly coming my way, warning received, when his eyes snag on one of Snow’s socks, half hidden under the sofa. I close my eyes, praying to whatever god that will listen that he won’t pick up on it, won’t question me about it. Thankfully, he drags his eyes away, only a sneer in its general direction, at my untidiness. I make a mental note to berate Snow about it later, as my father slips wordlessly out the door.

My exam isn’t as awful as I expect it to be, and I arrive home that evening jubilant, hoping my father’s bitter taste of disappointment perhaps won’t be so long lasting.

The flat is empty when I arrive, and I flop down on the sofa in front of the TV, putting on one of Snow’s mindless shows while I wait for him to get back.

Except he doesn’t come back.

I wait for hours, eventually assuming he got caught up in a painting, and lost track of time. It’s not like that’s never happened before. But then it gets later. When it the clock strikes midnight, I shrug on my coat and adventure out to find him, heart pounding as my mind races through a thousand different impossibilities. Still, my feet are fast on the pavement, and I’m outside the library within ten minutes.

All the lights are off. Making painting near impossible. A strong taste of dread creeps up into my mouth as I edge closer towards the entrance.

The door is unlocked, and I take a second after pushing it open to brace myself, to reassure myself that it’s probably just Snow, that he probably just fell asleep somewhere. But that’s never happened before.

But my even mind couldn’t have created the horrors that greet me on the other side of the door.

**SIMON**

It was late afternoon. I was three hours off finishing, and pondering which cake I’d buy Baz in Sainsbury’s on my way home, as I stacked books on the shelf. I was humming to myself; some tune Baz had played me on his piano the night before, some remnant of our joy from last night. I was in my own world, when I he walked in the door.

I didn’t recognise him, though there was something overwhelmingly familiar about his face, of the side that I glimpsed. I paused in my shelving, to watch as he stormed to Ebb’s desk, shouting something indistinguishable in her face, as a few pale-faced students hung by the door, carrying something between them.

I put down my books and hurried over to the commotion, my hands up, ready to play mediator to whatever was going on, or ready to fight for Ebb against whatever injustice. But then he whirled round to face me, and his fury was turned on _me_. And my brain couldn’t process the words he was saying, couldn’t focus on anything except that this man had _Baz’s face_ , and I realised what those students had held between them, were now bringing closer.

Black paint.

And I couldn’t hear anything at all, couldn’t hear anything over my screaming, my sobs of desperation as the students followed his directions. I was briefly aware of Ebb’s arms restricting mine, of soothing murmurs in my ear, of other students quietly filing out. But all I could see was Baz’s face. Baz’s face on this demon.

**BAZ**

“What happened?” I whisper, daring to disturb Snow’s blank stare. He doesn’t look at me, just continues staring at the wall in front of him. The wall that was once his mural, his heart, his soul. That was now covered by a wall of black paint, still drying.

“A man came in here. A Malcolm Grimm, Ebb said.” I’m going to be sick. “Said he was some university benefactor, or donor or something. Said we didn’t have permission to paint here. Said Ebb didn’t have permission to hire employees.” His voice is hoarse, and my dead heart stops at the thought of why. At the thought of who. At the realisation that my father managed to succeed in the unachievable. Managed to suck the life out of Simon Snow, my burning star.

I look around the library, at the other murals that remain untouched.

“He’s coming back to do the others.” He knew, he knew this one was the one that would cause him the most pain, that would hit him the hardest to lose. That would break us both, the most.

“I’d just added you.” He whispers. And I didn’t think it would be possible to break me further. “S’pose it’s a good thing it’s gone now.”

I feel myself lose everything good, everything good I’ve ever had, watch it all crumble into ashes before the fire my father has blown out.

“Simon, I-”

“Just go, Baz.”

And I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hurt my heart to write.  
> Only one more now left to go!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :)


End file.
